


Eight to Eight

by HastaLux



Series: Numerics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg helps, M/M, Mycroft Does Not Have It Together, Yes there's sex, but he does try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: After inadvertently seeing him in the nude, Mycroft Holmes has been experiencing highly distracting and unproductive thoughts re: one Greg Lestrade. Certainly there must be a solution to this terrible inconvenience?A sequel to Seven.





	Eight to Eight

Amongst Mycroft Holmes’ many skills is the ability to slip unseen into a crowd, to blend. This is not his favorite use of his abilities, as the entire concept of field work is… distasteful, but he can manage as the situation requires. 

Which is how he finds himself lurking outside a crime scene that his brother has been summoned to, trying to pass himself off as a casual, civilian observer who just happens to be primarily looking over one silver-haired DS. Sherlock might see him, of course, but that’s not his true concern. Sherlock knows that Mycroft _worries_ , but he is also tremendously vain and will assume any interest Mycroft shows is about _him_. He does not know that Mycroft is far more interested in keeping an eye on Gregory Lestrade. And Mycroft has to keep it that way. Sherlock’s interference in his… interest… would be most irritating. But Mycroft must discern what it is precisely about Gregory that has left him so… unsettled.

It has been weeks now and Mycroft still awakens with visions of Gregory fresh from the shower, his _length_ shamelessly on display. Ridiculous, that one glance can ignite such… frivolities of the psyche. He has been drinking coffee as well, just a small cup in the mornings. It is stimulating, besides the thought that it forms a key part of Gregory’s scent, a flavor that must linger on his mouth….

No. Mycroft shakes his head. These thoughts are highly distracting and unproductive. There must be a way to allay them. He just needs to sort out the precise nature of their source and his own mental prowess should be able to take care of the rest. However, being close to the source only seems to cause… additional extraneous thoughts. Very concerning. 

He initially attempted to alleviate the problem by occasional check-ins on Gregory’s flat via the CCTV camera conveniently placed across the way. He tells himself he is watching for signs of Sherlock visiting, strung out. What he has actually learned is that Gregory tends not to close his curtains and frequently wanders about in his pants. Mycroft almost had a heart event the time he saw Gregory sprawled on his couch _fondling_ himself, wife (back, again, at least for the moment) asleep in the bedroom. He had a panicked moment over the terrible urge to try and get a better view before he accepted that the armrest would block things anyway and he could really only see the telltale movement of Gregory’s arm. Mycroft set the camera back to its typical position feeling quite guilty, and left off trying to keep an eye that way. It was far too stressful.

Then he made a few discreet trips to crime scenes, ostensibly watching Sherlock. Making casual conversation with Lestrade, brief hellos and how-are-things and is-he-behaving. Idle chatter, but always enjoyable. 

He has expanded the file too, of course. DS Gregory Alexandre Lestrade. Pertinent facts are all laid out: date of birth, height, etc, but Mycroft could ascertain no definitive way of noting his most particular feature without being crass so he has simply noted Seven to the side of his purloined police database photo. A full copy of his Met police file is tucked in as well, but Mycroft has found nothing out of the ordinary there. Gregory is a good officer likely to make DI soon with a track record for defusing very tense situations. He has authorization to carry firearms but has not used it since he left SO6, the diplomatic protection arm of the Met, for SCD1. Homicide. 

Mycroft has looked into why Gregory would have transferred and determined that DS Lestrade found protection details _boring_. Which somewhat explained why he came to such an easy understanding with Sherlock. And perhaps… perhaps he had picked up something of anti-interrogation tactics in SO6. That may explain his lack of susceptibility to Mycroft’s carefully honed “Ice Man” persona, which usually necessitated barely a glance to put Mycroft on top of- no, stop, not on top of. 

Drat. His brain is already running along full tilt down this line of reasoning. _Gregory, in a fine suit perhaps_ \- No, no- Cabinet Meetings. Paperwork. Think of anything else. Anything to stop this degeneration. - _Mycroft straddling him across a bed_ \- Cricket! Trade negotiations! - _the slow unbuttoning of a fine silk shirt_ \- Margaret Thatcher! Margaret Thatcher!

Mycroft slides a finger under his collar, which feels unusually tight. 

“He ran off through the alley, if you were hoping to catch him. Said this one’s too dull for him and the wife did it.”

It is only by sheer force of will that Mycroft does not let a muscle move out of place while he recovers from the startling realization that he has been so distracted by thinking about Gregory that Gregory has actually managed to sneak up on him. Or, rather, walk directly over and pop across the police line. “Did she?”

“Dunno yet. Some of us have to wait for forensics to confirm these things. Seems likely, though.”

Mycroft can see the outline of it even from here, actually. Heeled bootprint, cigarette butt tinged with red. Sherlock probably sniffed the corpse and found something about perfume that confirmed it, he liked that sort of thing. And it turns out the deductions are making Mycroft feel much more… relaxed. Good. He has control over this area of reasoning. His mind is still his own.

He lets the tight hold over his muscles ease a bit. “Your team doesn’t seem terribly impressed by him.”

“Eh. They aren’t fans of his personality, but they also know he’s usually right. It would help if he stopped making sure they know how good he is by baring all their dirty laundry to the world, though. Almost got one of the forensic techs killed last week by pointing out that he’d been shagging _two_ of the uniforms.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, the girls almost tore him apart. ‘Course they don’t have much room for moral high ground either as he’s also married and both of them know it, as Sherlock gleefully informed both of them.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah. Anyway. This check-in about anything specific? You looked a bit, uh, distracted.”

 _Good lord._ If he only knew. Fortunately Mycroft’s ability to think on his feet has not yet abandoned him for rogue fantasies regarding Lestrade arriving in Mycroft’s master bath, form hazily reflected in the steam-coated mirror as he strips down, rough voice intoning _Mind if I join you?_ And drawing the curtain, bare down to his- NO. Stop it, Holmes. Think, damn you, that is the entirety of your job and everything you have ever cultivated, now use it!

“I thought it would be prudent to arrange a meeting with you to discuss some of Sherlock’s… particular qualities. Things it would be prudent for you to know if you intend to keep working with him.”

There. A coherent sentence, untainted by… the other thing. Mycroft is a credit to his extensive self-control and diplomatic training.

“Sure. When were you thinking?”

Mycroft calculated. The work day would be a challenge- his own hours were somewhat flexible, as evidenced by his ability to drop in on the crime scene unannounced, but Gregory was less fortunate and Mycroft would rather keep his involvement in observing Sherlock (and certainly not observing anything else) off any official records, which precluded coopting Gregory’s time via official meeting. “Perhaps dinner? I would prefer to keep our discussion… somewhat private.”

“Sure. You do carryout? Chinese?”

Carryout is not a typical part of Mycroft’s life, but he has eaten Chinese food. In China, primarily. “Certainly.”

“Great. Place near me does a great Sichuan noodle, melt your damn tongue off if you like. I’ll text you the menu. Come over round eight?”

Eight. “Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight should be good. Sherlock’s right, this case isn’t gonna take any overtime.”

Mycroft’s head cants. There is another segment of that earlier sentence that he is slowly parsing. _Come over._ To Gregory’s flat. The very scene of the… incident. “Your flat?”

“It’s private. And you already know where I live.” Greg offers him a lopsided grin. Mycroft feels that same flush from their previous meeting returning.

“Right.”

“Great. See you then. Gotta go make sure the techs don’t miss anything. ”

Mycroft watches as Gregory vanishes back under the tape and jogs over to his DI, an older woman who shoots Mycroft a curious look. Obviously he has not been as subtle as he thought. He’s too… distracted. And now he has agreed to dinner. Under something of a pretense. At Gregory’s flat. It’s as if he hardly has any self-control at all. Not that he has any idea what he’ll do once he’s there.

He sighs and makes his way back to the car. The entire situation is getting out of hand. _Gregory’s hands, fingering a towel before it drops to the floor. Would he perhaps shower before Mycroft arrived? Leave the door open so if Mycroft arrives early he might catch a glimpse-_

“Sir?”

He sits and folds his hands over his lap. “Home, please.”

***

Mycroft checks his watch. 7:45pm. One of his private drivers has escorted him to Gregory’s, and he is on call for whenever Mycroft departs. He’s brought a bottle, since it seemed from their text exchange in the afternoon that Gregory was paying for both their meals. Mycroft opted for _not_ “melt your tongue off spicy.”

The light is on in the flat. Should he go up? If this were a meeting he was attending for work, showing up early as opposed to precisely on time would carry a number of different connotations. Perhaps some of them translate to more… mundane matters. Early arrival indicates that the matter is worth additional time and careful consideration. That… seemed correct. Yes. Very good.

Gregory buzzes him in and Mycroft schools himself as best he can into his typical mild-yet-stoically-confident countenance. He is a master of deduction. His self-control is unparalleled. He will determine precisely what hold Gregory has over his thoughts and he will ensure it is counteracted. That is all. 

“Hullo, Mycroft.” He’s already set the food out on plates, which is relieving- Mycroft finds the idea of eating directly out of carryout containers slightly repulsive. Mycroft puts the bottle he’s brought on the table. “What’s that?”

“Baijiu. It’s… sort of a Chinese vodka.” 

Gregory arches a brow. “I should have guessed you wouldn’t really be a beer man.”

“No,” Mycroft chuckles mildly. “Not traditionally. This is… quite strong, however, so be mindful.”

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” Gregory asks once they’re already digging into the meal. Fortunately Mycroft does have a real answer. He wants Gregory to be aware of Sherlock’s _list_ , just in case there is an incident when Mycroft cannot be promptly summoned. It is… more relieving than he expects to be able to speak about this with someone who does not seem inclined to judge either himself or Sherlock for their strategy when it comes to this subject. “I think it’s pretty impressive he can manage to write it down every time. I’ve seen people desperate enough for a fix that they can’t remember their own name.”

“Yes, he has stuck to it. Do not feel badly about searching his pockets for it if you have to.”

“No worries there. I’ve already got plans if he shows up to a scene high.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ll do a drugs bust on his flat.”

Mycroft chuckles despite a flicker of brotherly concern. “Really? But you don’t want him in jail, not when he’s assisted you on cases.”

“Oh, not with the drugs team. Just me. I’ll raid his place myself. Probably won’t get all of it, but it’s mostly to make a point of things, isn’t it.”

“A novel plan.”

Greg sips the baijiu and casts a considering glance over Mycroft. “Was that all you wanted to talk about?”

“More or less. Why?”

“You seemed… preoccupied, earlier. I thought it might be something more serious.”

Mycroft debates, suddenly feeling a bit clammy as he tamps down a surge of Gregory-related _fantasies_. What do normal people do in these situations? He can’t just _say_ ‘I inadvertently saw you naked and it has caused a variety of intrusive thoughts I cannot rid myself of, please help me.’ The average human, in Mycroft’s experience, would lie. “Work matters,” he gets out, hoping it sounds normal. 

Greg arches a brow. “Yeah, what it is you do? I was guessing something, ah, for the government, given your ability to find all the crime scenes Sherlock is at. And my flat.”

“Mmm. Yes. Something for the government. A minor position.”

“Alright.” Greg in no way believes that, but it seems he won’t press the matter. “So do you do the same thing Sherlock does? The deducting thing? For the government?”

“Not precisely. Though I am capable of the ‘deducting thing’ as well.”

“Really. Who’s better at it?”

“I am.” 

Greg laughs. Mycroft likes the way it sounds, open and honest. He doesn’t hear laughs like that in his usual circles. “Not one for false modesty, are you. Sherlock agree with that?”

“Most of the time.” Mycroft allows himself a small, pleased smile. 

“So. Do the thing, then.”

“You _want_ to be deduced?”

“Sure. Sherlock did a bit earlier, this way I can compare notes and see who’s more accurate.” He clasps his hands behind his head and leans back. “Go on.”

Mycroft takes a sip of the baijiu. “Very well.” 

He lets his mental filters fall, the barricades that keep out the everyday noise of the world from intruding in his more focused tasks. It must be something particular Gregory wants him to ascertain, something Sherlock also would have noticed outside of the flat, but Mycroft plans to use all the information at his disposal. The obvious flows in first, evidence of regular habits- Gregory sleeps on the couch sometimes, there’s an armchair that only guests use, brands and products that indicate his income and how much he is willing to spend on what. He can cook, but doesn’t usually have time to do so. He owns a motorcycle but rarely rides it, it’s likely in a storage unit or similar. The wife- Mycroft’s head tilts. The wife has… moved out? Gregory isn’t wearing his ring. How had Mycroft missed that? God, he really is slipping. 

“Oh. I am… sorry, Gregory, about your wife. Are you… alright?”

Gregory lets out a dark chuckle. “See, you said that much more nicely than Sherlock did. He said ‘oh good, Lestrade, do try and remember to change the locks this time.’” He sips his drink. “I’m fine. It’s not the first time. She’s staying with… someone else. Might do a legal separation this time, I dunno.”

“Mmm. Perhaps time to get your motorcycle out of storage?”

“Oooh. You’re good, you. Yeah, maybe it is.”

Greg gets up and starts to clear away the plates. Mycroft’s still heightened senses pick up _cologne, reapplied after work, sandalwood_ and he starts trying to bring back up his mental barricades- this is usually the point where people expect him to leave, isn’t it? His skills do not lend themselves to small talk, and although he has not specifically sought out information on the… problem… he has been having, he has noticed that so long as he is speaking to Gregory the intrusions are somewhat easier to keep at bay. Mycroft is interested to find out if that is the case once he departs. He’ll do the polite thing and leave when is drink is finished, which should be just a minute or two.

“Top off?” 

Or Gregory could offer him more, which is an expectation of staying. “Yes, thank you,” he finds himself saying, though he has no idea what they’re going to talk about. It’s not like Mycroft can share much about his work, it’s nearly all classified or terribly boring to anyone outside of politics.

“This is pretty good stuff,” Gregory adds as he tops them both off.

“Yes, it is something I was served once at a dinner and found very intriguing.”

“Huh. You go to much more interesting dinners that I do.”

Mycroft finds himself regaling Gregory regarding his personal collection of international spirits, all acquired after he’d had a chance to taste them in various foreign locales or, more often now, with foreign diplomats in London. Gregory matches with a story of a murder he’d been working where the family of the victim kept trying to break into the crime scene to steal the victim’s coin collection, and eventually almost all of them ended up in jail with three of them charged with abetting the killing. He pours them another at some point and Mycroft is starting to feel a bit on the sloshed side- it is more than he would usually have in one sitting, but he isn’t so far gone not to realize it. Alcohol can do odd things to his observational skills- he knows that is part of the reason Sherlock enjoys experimenting with drugs- but he usually does not have enough to cause that sort of effect. Perhaps he did not adequately reinstate his barricades earlier, because now he is getting observational flashes from Gregory as he talks. _Used to be in a band. Prefers it when cases are a bit of a challenge. Pansexual._ Interesting. The thought sends a pleased ripple of-

_Oh no._

It’s arousal.

How did he not realize? Had it actually been so long that he no longer recognized the feeling?

Mycroft brings his legs together and tries to lock every muscle beneath his abdominals into order because he is _not_ going to become erect in Greg Lestrade’s flat. Absolutely not.

“So. I was wondering- you being so, ah, distracted. That’s not about work, is it?”

The baijiu stalls on its way down Mycroft’s throat but he manages to actually swallow before he chokes on it. “Why do you say that?” He needs to find a way to extract himself. Drinking and self-denial, what is he, back at university? He has to go before this becomes embarrassing-

“See, thing is, with me also being a detective and all, I’m not entirely unobservant-” Mycroft clasps his hands over his lap. “-and I couldn’t help but notice that your thousand-yard-stare this morning at the scene seemed a bit, ah, pointed?”

Mycroft makes a slightly pained noise that he tries to mask with a “Hmm?”

Gregory smiles at him. “When you were last here,” _Oh God no_ , “I thought I saw a bit of movement out the corner of my eye. And I thought, eh, my own fault for being too used to no one being round, we’ll just not mention it cause that’s the bloke thing to do. Not mention things. So no one’s uncomfortable. But then I happen to notice that, well. Your eyes. They’ve gotten pretty dark three times this evening. Looks good on you.” Mycroft’s smile is strained with a vague sense of panic, but when he looks into Gregory’s eyes he can’t see anything mocking, nothing… deceptive. If anything he’s… pleased? He feels another ripple and clamps his legs tighter. “Four times, then. So. If you want to not mention things, that’s fine. But if there was anything you might want to bring up… if maybe I read you wrong and it wasn’t that you were uncomfortable at all… I’m more than willing.”

It takes a moment before Mycroft remembers to breathe, to blink. It’s coming back to him, the memories of how these things were negotiated, an interpersonal skill set he shelved to make space for diplomacy and politics and professional intimidation. He doesn’t _delete_ , not like Sherlock. He _archives._ The muscle memory is dulled, but still there. Casual pickups, pubs and nightclubs before it was a security risk to “hook up.” Dating, even, from time to time. He reaches out and takes Gregory’s hand, turning it palm up and drawing his fingers across the lines. “I enjoyed the view quite a lot,” he says, his voice mercifully holding steady. Now that he’s letting himself think it, even say it, it feels so much less intimidating.

“Did you now.” Gregory bends his own fingers and strokes over Mycroft’s. “Anything you want to do about it?”

Mycroft slides to the edge of his chair and gets his feet back under him. “Yes, I believe there is.”

The first kiss is soft and gentle, tinged with the spice of Greg’s meal and the fiery scent of the baijiu. Mycroft lets himself fall into it a bit, his mind relaxing. Slow and searching and unrushed. Gregory pulls him to the living room and there the kisses gain some speed, tongues searching. Mycroft can’t be sure which of them goes for shirt buttons first, but soon they’re both bare above the waist and running their hands over each other as they end up wrapped about each other on the sofa. He can feel his own hardness begin to strain in his trousers, and Gregory’s is pressing against his thigh. And Gregory’s is… he can feel the size of it, and it’s tantalizing. He slides his hand down to Gregory’s thigh. “Gregory,” he breathes in the other man’s ear, “may I- touch you?”

“Yes,” Gregory sighs back, nuzzling into Mycroft’s throat.

Mycroft undoes the button and slides the zipper down, using both hands to draw trousers and pants alike over Gregory’s firm arse. 

When he slides one hand around and frees Gregory’s cock from the other side, the moan Gregory lets out goes straight to Mycroft’s own throbbing arousal. But Mycroft isn’t terribly interested in his own pleasure, not at this moment. He just wants to appreciate all of Gregory, every inch he has. He draws his hand up and back slowly, feeling the telltale wetness forming at the tip. Each stroke is deliberate, especially as Gregory is free with his noises of appreciation and Mycroft could listen to him groan all night. 

They untangle, freeing Mycroft to explore Gregory with his mouth, lavish him with kisses and worship all he has to offer, noting which places, what sort of touch makes him pant, and whimper, and growl. He wants to disassemble the mystery that is Greg Lestrade, watch him break apart and then spend hours putting him back together. When he does come it’s utterly beautiful, and Mycroft bends his head to lap him clean.

He is interrupted by a strong hand cupping his jaw, guiding him to change positions. “You’re a terror, Mycroft,” Greg growls, a pleasant rumble against his throat. “Your turn.”

It’s the most welcome form of retaliation Mycroft has ever experienced. 

At some point, when things are quieter, both men fully sated, Mycroft realizes that Gregory is asleep sprawled over him. He manages to find his phone without rousing him and text the driver both a dismissal for the evening and a request to arrange an 8am pickup. It’s nearly three anyway, he can spend a few hours on a couch with a Lestrade-shaped blanket. 

Some time later he awakens. It’s light out and his neck is killing him, but he feels otherwise fairly wonderful. Except that he has to extract himself out from under Gregory. There’s murmured morning words- Gregory is off today, is Mycroft actually working- Mycroft is _always_ working, of course- promises that they’ll do another dinner. At Mycroft’s, this time. Possibly with a bed instead of a couch after, which earns him a swat. He encourages Greg toward his own bed as well so he can sleep without ruining his back, kissing him until he is awake enough to make it up from the couch- though that proves to be a dangerous idea as Gregory is not inclined to let Mycroft out of the bed again once there. They come together again over Gregory’s hand and Mycroft leaves him tucked back in and sound asleep as he recovers his scattered clothing from around the rest of the flat.

When the car arrives Mycroft is surprised to find Anthea is driving. “Good morning.”

“Morning sir. There’s a coffee there for you.”

“Thank you.”

She eyes him evenly in the rearview. “Home to change, sir?”

“Yes, I think that would be wise.”

“And perhaps a shower.”

He arches a brow. “That noticeable?”

“Sandalwood isn’t really your scent, sir.”

“Ah.” He hadn’t noticed- but then scents do dull in close proximity. Perhaps he’d just set the shirt aside. See what lingers when he’s done saving the world’s leaders from themselves.

“And sir?”

“Mm?”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem much less distracted now.” Mycroft ponders this and finds he is in agreement. His mind is much calmer. Odd- perhaps now that he has tasted the forbidden fruit, he need not waste so much time fantasizing about it. “I would encourage you to continue whatever has... assisted you with your focus.”

“I believe I am quite in agreement with that plan.”

He sees her smile in the mirror and he cannot help but offer one in return. “Is there any paperwork I should ready for you while you bathe, sir?”

Ah. He knows what she is asking- the formal sort of paperwork necessitated for relationships. Security checks. Background. But he can’t _register_ Gregory. Not while the man is still married. Strange, that someone of Mycroft’s position could formally list a dozen mistresses without batting an eye but the paperwork would be instantly rejected if _he_ was, effectively, the mistress. “Bring me the plans for Paris and the summit in Shanghai. I’ll work on them in the car on the way in.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses her face. “Very well, sir.” 

“Anthea.”

“Yes?”

“That’s a ‘not right now’, not a ‘never.’ I would, in fact, like for it to be a ‘someday’.”

Her face brightens. “That’s good, sir.”

 _Yes,_ he thinks. _It is very good indeed._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @WakingtheWindstorm for beta-reading!
> 
> Comments are as always very welcome. :)


End file.
